


I felt it.

by b00mgh



Series: Twelve Days of Ficmas 2019 [7]
Category: Charlie's Angels (2019)
Genre: 12 Days of Ficmas, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Saint's name is Luis, Useful Lesbians, at the end, like two sentences of fluff, love me some wlw, mostly just the hurt part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b00mgh/pseuds/b00mgh
Summary: "Had they thought this through for another fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, Elena, Sabina, and Jane would have figured out that Rebekah Bosley would never betray them– that none of the pieces of the guilt puzzle were showing her face. Probably.But we’ll never really know because, instead of another fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, they get a bomb to the face."Alternately: Elena is kidnapped, Sabina is injured, and Jane panics.
Relationships: Jane Kano/Sabina Wilson
Series: Twelve Days of Ficmas 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570897
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85





	I felt it.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen this movie in so goddamn long omllllll, but I needed to write this bc 1. the scene needed it 2. my heart needed it and 3. i have a moral obligation to show support for the movie giving me mainstream action hero wlw

Had they thought this through for another fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, Elena, Sabina, and Jane would have figured out that Rebekah Bosley would never betray them– that none of the pieces of the guilt puzzle were showing her face. Probably. 

But we’ll never really know because, instead of another fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, they get a bomb to the face.

Jane wakes up slowly, her eyes are glued shut with ash and sweat and maybe even some blood. She can’t tell yet if she’s bleeding. It doesn’t hurt yet. She knows it will. It is only after it registers that she had to  _ wake up _ that she panics. Elena.  _ Sabina _ . Where are they. Are they okay. She’s got to find them. Her body drags itself on top of her feet and she searches the rubble with methodical precision. Panic can’t drag away her training, not yet. She sweeps half of the collapsed walls and ceiling-now-floor before she sees any organic shape, and Sabina’s mess of blonde hair has never looked better than it does now, matted with blood and dyed with ash and dirt. However, this is when panic is strong enough for Jane to ignore everything else, fuck her goddamn training, and press her exhausted, bruised arms to throw a column probably twice her weight off of Sabina and sit down next to her and press her ear to Sabina’s chest to check for a pulse and a breath because her hands are shaking and numb and so, so,  _ dirty _ . 

Alive. 

Sabina is alive. 

Her chest rises and falls, stuttering and slow. Her heart pounds sluggishly. 

Thank fucking christ. 

Jane can’t afford to cry yet, she’s still got to search. But Sabina. She can’t leave her. What if she stopped breathing while Jane was off somewhere. What if she died alone. What if she died. No. Jane can’t leave Sabina. 

Her arms do their best to be gentle, but she still can’t feel them well, so she ends up apologizing profusely as Sabina groans in her sleep at the aggravation of her wounds. It’s not as easy to check the rest of the carcass of the building– it was supposed to be a  _ safe house _ – with Sabina cradled against her chest to hear her breathing against her neck, feel her heartbeat against her chest, but there is no one else, alive or dead, to be found. Elena is gone. Jane has to just pray she’s safe enough to wait for her. She can’t do anything about her kidnapped friend right now. 

But she can help Sabina.

She sprints to Fatima’s and pounds the door with her foot. It’s late, Fatima is probably asleep. It takes her several minutes to get to the door.

She doesn’t say anything immediately, just takes in the sight of Jane– who had been so composed just this morning, delivering supplies for her clinic– covered in ash and bruises and blood, eyes wide with panic and withheld tears, her whole body shaking and her arms holding the girl she had cast lopsided smiles at every time she wasn’t looking.

“S-Sabina,” she stammers, looking more shellshocked than cohesive. “She wo-won’t wake up.” Fatima watches Jane’s face contort into something she hopes she never has to see again: unadulterated horror, grief, love. Fatima has seen that expression on husbands and wives who lost their partners, on parents losing children, but not on MI-6 agents. “P-p-please,  _ help her _ .”

Fatima finally snaps out of herself and beckons Jane inside, rushing all around the house to get whatever she might need– what had even happened? What injuries are we dealing with? Concussion sounds likely. Maybe some broken bones? Definitely abrasions. Had she seen burns? 

Jane is staring at Sabina, laid out on a table like a science experiment. Like a corpse. She has her fingers wrapped around Sabina’s wrist, and her eyes never leave the rise and fall of her chest. She uses her free hand to speed-dial Luis.

“Jane!” he sings excitedly, “How is everything going? How are the girls?” Jane doesn’t reply. She can’t– what could she say? When she’s been silent too long, Luis’s tone changes. “What happened?” he asks softly.

“We’re in Istanbul,” she whispers. 

“ _ Istanbul!? _ ” 

“Can– can you come?” Jane pleads, “Sabina’s hurt.”

“Oh, mija,” Luis sighs. “I’m on my way. Can you send me the address?” Jane can hear him running through the receiver. “Jane, how are  _ you _ ?” Luis asks. “I don’t know you if all of a sudden Sabina is injured first.” The joke only falls flat because Jane isn’t herself enough to recognize it. “Are you alright, Jane?” he repeats.

Is she? She hasn’t felt anything yet. But she can check, for Luis. Start at your toes: are they broken? No, she can move them all just fine. Your feet: one of her stilettoes broke in the blast, and she had thrown off her shoes almost immediately after standing; Jane had run through the streets of Istanbul, her feet hurt like hell, but nothing permanent. Your legs: scraped all over, bruised to shit, she can hardly stand on them when she tries, but they’re not severed or irreparably crushed. Your fingers: numb from all the scraping through rubble, but just little cuts and abrasions. Your arms: about the same state as everything else, Jane thinks she may have thrown out her shoulder moving that pillar off Sabina. Your torso and chest, this is important, angel, really be thorough here: her ribs feel too tight, but that could be emotional, there’s a deeper cut from something scraping her shoulder, and she feels like vomiting. Your neck: intact. Your head: well it’s certainly not missing.

Of course, Luis is just hearing eighty-four seconds of radio silence. He doesn’t press. He can hear how fast, how unbalanced Jane’s breathing is, and that’s more than enough. Luis knows Jane wouldn’t have even called her if it wasn’t bad, if she wasn’t scared– he’s a safety blanket for the angels, and Jane does her best not to need him. 

“Jane,” he assures her slowly, “I’m on my way now. I’ll be there in two hours.”

In the meantime, Jane will sit idly by, mind on autopilot functions that currently consist of only two things: make sure Sabina is alive and stay out of Fatima’s way. Fatima will fix what’s broken and make comfortable what hurts, and she will have her hands full doing so with Sabina until Luis arrives two hours later, on the dot, and introduces himself and asks about her practice and compliments her in all the ways that will win her favor and then gets to work fixing up Jane– at least on the outside. 

When nobody is in danger of dying and Luis has had time to shove healthy snacks at everyone, when Jane has enough presence of mind to consciously register his words, Luis crosses his arms. “This is  _ not _ Brazil,” he reminds her, “and it’s not Constantinople, either.”

“That joke is not funny,” Fatima comments absently, still puttering about cleaning up the rags that had been used to wipe away blood and disinfect cuts. But, after a moment, she adds, “ _ That _ , good Luis, is the business of the Turks.” They exchange a near-laugh, and Jane grimaces.

“Is that a reference to something?” she asks the room.

“She speaks!” Luis cries excitedly. 

“Who speaks?” Sabina asks, raising her head just a bit to speak with the slur of the injured before settling her head back into the pillow with a groan of pain.

“Sabina!” Jane cries, attention immediately zeroed in. “You’re awake!”

“Are you crying?” disbelief and care mingle in Sabina’s hoarse tone. 

“ _ No _ ,” Jane snaps. “What, you didn’t think I ever cried?”

“I didn’t think you cared about much of anything enough to cry,” Sabina murmurs.

“Well, I care about  _ you _ , so–” 

And the conversation was cut short by that special kind of embarrassment that can make a heart squeeze. They don’t have it all figured out yet, they still need to rescue their adopted nerd from  _ someone _ , and Luis knows Rebekah Bosley is on her way, and Fatima would really like to be giving them post-care instructions, but for another seven scheduled seconds they have a little bubble of happy anxiety and gooey staring into each other’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> On the seventh day of Ficmas the author gave to me: seven scheduled seconds, six possible meetings, five connected AUs, four male mistresses, three useless lesbians, two dumbass heroes, and a start to a Supernatural thing!


End file.
